


Sexiled

by flexzone



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Blood, Fluff, Guns, I have no idea what I'm doing, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Scars, Swearing, i'm probably forgetting something here..., john and karkat and dave are all dopey college kids who also have no idea what they're doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2824253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flexzone/pseuds/flexzone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John sucks royally at organic chemistry, Dave's roommate gets some, banter is exchanged, and a crush is born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally just a quick one-shot, with a second part added as an afterthought...i haven't actually written anything before, so let me know if there's anything/everything glaringly wrong. comments would be much appreciated :)

Your name is John Egbert, and you're screwed. 

You're nineteen, a second-year biology major at a big public university in California, and as of right now, the only thing lower than your morale is your GPA if you don't finish your goddamn chemistry homework. How the heck are you supposed to figure out how to synthesize a polymer if you can barely tell the difference between an ether and an ester? You scrub your eraser across the page of your lab notebook one too many times, and when the rubber shreds a gaping hole straight down the middle of numbers three and four, you decide to take it as a sign from some deity you don't believe in that you've earned a break. Or so you tell yourself! 

Your phone reads 12:46 a.m. Propping your legs up on your desk, you nurse your extra-large thermos of lukewarm coffee, unsubtly swiped each morning in 48-ounce doses from the nearest dining hall. 

A pair of keys is jammed hastily into the lock of your tiny double, and your roommate, equally frazzled, barges in, not even bothering to shrug his backpack off before grabbing the thermos from your hand and taking a huge swig.

"Good morning to you too, Karkat!" you say with a grin. Your roommate came across as a total sourpuss when you first met him last year, but the two of you ended up forming this weird symbiosis after Karkat realized he could mooch off your near-infinite supply of coffee in exchange for providing you with uninterrupted private printer access. Things only got better from there, especially since he's a total teddy bear when you get to know him!

He slams the thermos back down on your desk and turns around to rifle haphazardly through his backpack, splashing a few drops of coffee on your homework in the process, but at this point, you give approximately zero shits. Your TA will probably be happy if you turn anything in at all, regardless of paper cleanliness.

"Tough day in the computer lab?" you offer.

"Can we agree that heap allocation is an infernal punishment assigned with the sole purpose of conning pathetic wannabe programmers like yours truly into ripping our own colons out?" he mutters. He rakes a hand through his hair and swears under his breath in a language you don't understand--he mentioned his parents grew up in India, but you haven't pried beyond that. You think he and his dad are on kind of weird terms. 

"Amen, dude. Chemistry is kicking my ass," you add. "It's gonna be a late night. Want a mug?" 

"Can't. Back to the library," he grumbles, stuffing two more computer science textbooks into his ratty backpack and heading toward the door. "I'm probably gonna just sleep at Sollux's after I finish copying his code. Guess which asshole finished the assignment in less than two hours? Fuck that shit." He checks for his keys, and breezes out the door. "I'll be back tomorrow night." The door slams shut behind him.

You sigh. Things are lonely without your roommate, even if he does spend half his time flying off the handle into a keysmashing rage. You glance briefly at your own lamentably incomplete homework. As soon as you pick your pencil back up to give it a second (okay, eighth) try, there's a meek little knock at your door. That's funny; you weren't expecting anyone at one in the morning. Maybe Karkat forgot something in the room?

You open the door to reveal a vaguely familiar face. You recognize this kid from the bathroom--he's got this really distinctive white hair, and you've never seen him without a pair of aviators--but other than the fact that he uses cinnamon-flavored toothpaste, you don't know anything about him. 

"Can I help you...?" 

"Roommate's fucking. Exam in eight hours. Need sleep," he slurs. "Can I crash here?"

"Huh? Uh..." you trail off, noticing the pile of sheets and pillows in his arms. You're not really one to let total strangers invade your personal space, but he looks so exhausted that you can't help but cave. "Sure, come on in. You can just pile in on top of my roommate's bed." 

Following your lead, he spreads a blanket across the top of Karkat's own bedding, hops onto the bed, and curls up unceremoniously.

"Name's Dave, by the way. I'm in 137," he drawls sleepily, stuffing a pillow over his head, and it takes you a second to realize he's talking about his room number. Jeez, that's only two doors down from you! How have you not met before? "Thanks for letting me sleep here." 

"Uh, no problem! I'm John. Make yourself at home, I guess?" Clearly he has, because he's transformed into a blanket burrito when you swivel around to get another look at him. He doesn't respond.

Unfortunately, you are once again distractionless. Your homework awaits on the desk, and you take a (quiet) gulp of your coffee to reboot your motivation. 

By 2:19 a.m., you're still hard at work. You've gotten through a few more of the easy problems, but the second half of your homework still looks impossible. You don't have class until after lunch tomorrow, so you vow to give it another hour or two before giving up.

You hear a creak, and then the shuffle of socked feet behind you. You turn around to find an exhausted and woefully conscious Dave. 

"Am I being too loud? Sorry, I can erase more quietly." You're nervous, and you aren't sure why.

"S'not you," he mumbles. "Insomnia. It happens. Of course it'd be tonight of all nights." You nod in solemn agreement. Sometimes you have these horrible nightmares about a crazy computer game, and they seem so vivid that it almost feels like they're distant memories rather than dreams. You decide to keep this charming peculiarity to yourself.

"Were you around last year?" you start. "I see you in the bathroom sometimes, but I feel like you're new this quarter." 

"I took a gap year," he says, and there's a note to his voice that you can't place.

"Oh, really? That's so cool! So you're old, then?" you say cheekily. 

He nods, but he doesn't smile. What's his deal?

"What'd you do?" you press further, trying to keep the exchange going.

"I was dealing with some stuff," he says, and it's clear he's looking for an out from this conversation. "What're you working on?" he asks, leaning over your shoulder. 

"Chemistry. It's taking me forever," you admit with a heavy sigh. He looks at the paper for a second, and you're worried you've said something wrong.

"I'm a chem major. Want me to try and help?" 

You stare at him. 

" _You're_ a chem major?" He smirks like he gets this a lot, looking significantly more awake.

"You sayin' I look dumb?" 

"No, no, it's not that!" you stutter, but to be honest, he's totally got you pinned. You just figured it wasn't possible to be both attractive and smart enough to major in something like chemistry; this guy would look way more at home posing in front of an Abercrombie than under a fume hood. You suddenly become 200% more aware of the fact that he's not wearing a shirt. 

He ignores your stammering and plucks the pencil out of your hand. You vaguely register that he smells nice. 

"The carboxylic acids and the alcohols will react. That's how you get your polymer," he explains coolly, gesturing with the tip of the pencil. You stare at him again, admittedly for a different reason this time around--he sounds like he's just spoken another language. The corners of his mouth quirk up again like he's trying not to laugh at you, and you go red.

"Are you laughing at me? I was sick, I haven't been to lecture in two days--" 

"Calm down, I'm not laughing at you. You're the one who made the snap IQ judgment," he retorts, referencing your earlier confusion at his choice of major. You do feel kinda bad about that! "How 'bout I repay you for giving me a place to sleep by tutoring you tomorrow? After lunch or something, once my exam's over." 

Your eyes widen.

"Holy shit, for real? That would be so awesome, Dave, you don't even know how lost I am," you gush.

"Pretty sure I can guess," he teases, pointing to your (presumably incorrect) answer to number six. He backs up a couple steps to check out your seriously rad poster collection! "These movies are total shit. You really watch this junk?" 

"Dude! You come in, you make fun of my chemistry homework, you insult my movies? I should kick you out!" you cry, faking offense. 

"Okay, okay, point taken. No movie mockery." He makes a lock-and-key gesture against his lips. 

You take this opportunity to get a better look at his admittedly sculpted chest. It's littered with scars--most are pretty standard, long and thin and slicey, but there's a weird thick one down the middle of his sternum that could only have come from a serious stab wound or something. You can't help but ask; you're thinking about applying to medical school, and you've never seen anything like these before.

"What're those scars from?"

"Swordfighting," he says matter-of-factly.

"No, not those. That big one in the middle," you clarify, pointing. His posture stiffens a little.

"My sister got sick after my freshman year here," he murmurs, absently running a finger over the scar in question. "That's why I took a year off." 

"Oh, jeez...what happened?" You know it's rude, but you're just so curious, and you can't see how his sister being sick would lead to a scar like that.

"Alcoholism," he says flatly. "I don't remember exactly what happened, but they told me she got so drunk she came at me with a broken wine bottle." 

Fuck.

"I'm...really sorry, man," you say in a near-whisper. "I had no idea." This elicits a shrug.

"It is what it is." After clearing his throat, he continues. "That's...actually why I chose this room to crash in. I know Karkat through her therapist," he adds, seemingly trying to diffuse the tension.

"Huh?"

"His dad's got some problems, too, and we met in the waiting room." Karkat's definitely alluded to the fact that his dad drinks sometimes, which would fit with his story, but again, you never pried. You had no idea he'd had to deal with something like this. 

"So what happened?"

"It missed my heart by a little bit, which would have sucked, so they just stitched me up and kept me there for a couple days. I kept having this dream where I got shot in the chest, and there was this black dog thing hovering around, but it was probably just the drugs they had me on." You decide not to mention that you've had an eerily similar dream where you find your dad's dead body. "There was so much blood, I thought I was gonna die," he admits quietly. "It sucked ass." 

"Yeah, I can only imagine," you muse. "But you're better now, right?"

"For the most part. And my sister's doing better, too. I mean, I practically have a fucking coronary when she walks past the liquor cabinet, but other than that, I'm doing okay." 

"Well, good," you say nervously, not sure how to respond. How the heck did you get on this topic again?

He leans against your bed and pushes his shades up to rub his eyes. His eyelashes are like snowflakes, you think automatically, and then you mentally kick yourself for being such a sap. He's just a guy from down the hall! You've known him for all of three hours, two of which he spent asleep. 

"So what's your story?" he asks.

"Oh, uh," you fumble, not sure how to top his own dramatic secret past. "Not much. I'm from Washington, where my dad lives, and I'm doing biology." Could you sound more boring? Ugh.

"Any hobbies?"

"Awesome movies," you begin, counting off on one hand, and he looks like he's rolling his eyes under his shades. You choose to ignore him. "Pranks? Oh, and piano."

"You play?" he asks, suddenly looking attentive.

"Yeah."

"Well?" 

"Yeah, I guess!" You're not one to brag, but you do think you have a special knack for the piano!

"...That's sick," he says almost dreamily. "Always wished I'd learned a real instrument, but I ended up making mixes instead. Like on turntables," he says, rambling a little. 

"I could teach you! There's a piano in the common room." He blinks at you like he's expecting you to retract your offer, but you say nothing, and he smiles the tiniest bit. It looks good on him.

"I'd like that." He's still smiling, and you turn a little pink. He locks eyes with you from behind those dumb shades (or at least it feels like he does), and oh fuck, your heart skips a beat. You probably look like you stumbled out of the world's shittiest shoujo. "Anyway, I'm beat, so I'm gonna try to head back to bed. Exam in five hours," he says abruptly, turning on his heel and climbing back on top of Karkat's bed. 

You feel like you have history with this kid, like you've known him for longer than a day, but you can't place it as anything other than extreme déjà vu.

You watch him shift to try to get comfortable, and he hugs a pillow to his chest. Jeez, that's cute. For a split second, you feel the strangest urge to climb in next to him like you've known him all your life, but instead you close your notebook, change into pajamas, and jump into your own bed. Glancing back at him one more time, you reach to turn out your lamp.

"Night, Dave."

"G'night," he mumbles, and god dammit, you think you've got yourself a crush.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dave freaks out not over his chemistry midterm, but over the friendly dweeb down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hadn't originally intended to add a part 2, but i figured writing dave flipping his shit over literally nothing could be fun :P this is sort of quick and sloppy, but i hope you enjoy!

Your name is Dave Strider, and you don't mean to be a dick or anything, but you're kind of a chemistry god.

Having come to college expecting to major in film or photography, you sat through an intro chemistry class with your freshman roommate at the suggestion of your RA, who insisted it would be a great bonding experience. 

No matter how hard you tried to give in to the everybody-hates-chemistry peer pressure, you kept finding something weirdly beautiful about thinking on a microscopic level. You're pretty sure it has something to do with pattern recognition--you've always been good with beats, and there's a distinct rhythm to predicting molecular interactions that gets you really fired up. 

...Of course, you'd never explain it like this out loud. What kind of lunatic publicly gets their panties in a twist over benzene rings? Christ.

Anyway, what you're trying to say here is that you basically just destroyed your morning midterm on four hours of sleep. Normally, this would merit skipping any and all afternoon commitments in favor of Netflix and a nap. But as much as you'd like to make a beeline for your bed, you've got an obligation two doors down. With the resident hottie, no less. 

Score.

The adorable thing about John--god, you can't believe you just used the a-word, your brother would have a field day with that--is that he has no idea he's adorable. He stumbles through the halls in those stupid Spongebob pajamas that he doesn't seem to realize are two sizes too small, and they make his ass look incredible. Not that you've checked. 

You've learned several things about him over the course of the quarter, one of which being that he sucks at putting toothpaste on his toothbrush; he always ends up smearing it all over the lid and sheepishly scraping it off with the bristles. On Saturday mornings he sings only the most obnoxious selections from the Billboard Hot 100 in the shower, and fuck you if it isn't the most beautiful thing you've ever heard. He religiously separates his whites from his darks (seriously?), and he calls his dad in the stairwell on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. 

Not that you've checked.

So basically you're a pathetic loser pining over the nerd next door, and now the only non-stalkerly interaction you've had with him involved you being an unwanted imposition at one in the morning. You figure a classic study date could be the perfect chance to redeem yourself.

Lost in thought, you make your way back to your room, which is by this point thankfully devoid of your roommate and his fuckbuddy. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror, and jesus, your old Juicy sweats, a vestige from Christmas 2010 in the Strider household, definitely aren't living up to their name. You decide your favorite pair of skinny jeans will help boost your ass to near-Egbertian quality. 

After changing, you grab your backpack and head ten feet down the hall to John's room. You're giving yourself a quick mental pep talk when he unexpectedly opens his door and practically walks right into you.

"Oh! Hi, Dave. You're early!" You note that his smile's tooth-to-rest-of-face ratio is fucking absurd. "I was just gonna wash my thermos. Were you talking to yourself, or...?"

God dammit. Of course he had to instantly catch you looking like a complete moron. You scramble to recover your dignity, responding so completely truthfully that he'll have to assume you're joking.

"You know me, man, psyching myself up for our first date. Had to change into my sexiest jeans, fix my hair, pop a breath mint, the usual. How do I look?" You strike a pose.

His cheeks flush a little, and he looks sort of uncomfortable. Was he checking out your ass? No, wait, he was definitely looking at your hands, which you've awkwardly jammed into the pocket of your hoodie. Can he tell you're nervous? Shit, you probably creeped him out three seconds into your second meeting. 

"Uh...I mean, pretty good! You can come in if you want?" He glances over his shoulder for no reason, almost like he's trying to hide his face. You know he tends to blush pretty easily. Not that you've checked. 

You obey, following him to his desk and setting your bag down. 

"There are still three problems I haven't done," he confesses. "I'm really no good at this at all. Thanks for agreeing to help."

"No prob. There's more than enough talent in this here noggin to go around," you joke, tapping your head. He flicks your forehead, and your smirk only widens. "So which ones are you stuck on?"

"Here. I don't understand how they turned this into an acid chloride, and..."

He keeps talking, but you're too preoccupied with staring at his lips to listen. You can't help it, really, with the way he keeps nibbling at them. He's always pushing his glasses up in the cutest possible way, and his permanent bedhead demands to be ruffled. You barely restrain yourself from reaching a hand out to touch it.

"...Right?" he asks, and now he's looking at you with the widest, most earnest blue eyes you've ever seen. Fuck, you have no idea what he just asked you.

You proceed to unhelpfully spout two or three of the key points you remember from taking this class your freshman year and hope they at least tangentially address his question. He squints at the problem in concentration, erases something, and then scribbles something else down. He presents you with his revision. "So like this, then?"

You glance over his work, and nothing looks flagrantly incorrect, so you nod and tell him he's got it. He does this dorky victory fistpump and checks the problem off. 

Feeling slightly guilty about ignoring his homework in favor of ogling his mouth, you try to walk him through the last two problems in detail. He's definitely not a natural at chemistry, but he's a quick learner, and he's able to apply your tips within about ten minutes. You're about to suggest that you celebrate with a movie from his collection (for him, you're willing to endure two hours of cheap explosions and comedy gags) when Karkat walks in after his morning classes.

He stops and looks almost knowingly at the two of you. 

"Fancy seeing you here, Dave," he says slowly. "Don't mind me." He gets the beginnings of a shit-eating grin on his face before turning around to start typing on his computer. You don't know why, but you suddenly remember that he lives for romance movies.

"So...I'm done with work for the day. We could watch a movie or something? I'll be the bigger man and let you pick," you offer. He rolls his eyes.

"I accept, if only 'cause I don't wanna sit through the entire High School Musical trilogy or whatever the heck you're into!" How old is he? Six? 

"Go for it, as long as you promise never to say 'heck' again." 

He throws his eraser at you and ends up picking this movie about two almost-lovers who can see into each other's lives from across the country. You're (kind of) far from a hopeless romantic, but even you can't help but think it's sort of sweet.

You catch him sneaking glances at you, and you wonder if he's counting down the minutes until you leave; you guess you've kind of overstayed your welcome by now. Maybe this whole movie business was a ploy to avoid actually having to talk to you.

This train of thought is happily interrupted when you feel his shoulder nudge up against your upper arm. You figure it's an accident--that is, until you catch him glancing up at you expectantly, and holy fuck, is he asking to cuddle? You feel like the smoothest goddamn sixth grader when you slide a tentative arm around his shoulder, and bless his nerd heart, he leans into it. 

By the end of the movie, he's practically curled up against you, and you're absently trailing your fingertips up and down his arm. He blinks up at you again with those big blue eyes, and you swear you can feel your heart beating in your throat.

"That...it was pretty good, right?" he says a little huskily. It takes you exactly four seconds to realize he's referring to the movie. 

"Yeah," you say cleverly. Ugh. 

When you look over at him, he's staring, lips parted, at your mouth. His gaze flicks briefly back up to meet your own, and shit, you know this is it, this is your chance, but you're not-so-secretly a total wuss, and you keep wondering if it's all a misunderstanding, and maybe you just have something stuck between your teeth, or you--

You hear an irritated groan-facepalm combo, and there's a brief flash of panic in some distant corner of your brain before you realize it's Karkat glaring at you, not John. 

"Just fucking kiss already, Jesus Christ." He raises an eyebrow, and you're prepared to play it all off as a joke before a pair of lips meets your own. 

Who knew John Egbert, dork extraordinaire, had balls of steel?

You lean into the kiss; it's over as quick as it started, but it's sweet and warm and kind of everything you ever wanted from him. Your lips feel hot where his used to be, and when he nestles his head into the crook of your neck, you can't help but feel like you've been waiting for this for years. There's a tuft of his hair tickling your jaw, and you're sure it's the same one that always sticks up before he's showered in the morning. Not that you've checked.

You want to see him again.

"Dinner tomorrow?" you ask, hoping you don't sound too desperate.

"Only if you promise to wear those dumb black skinny jeans that are, like, two sizes too small," he mumbles into your shoulder. "They make your ass look incredible."

He's checked.


End file.
